Beautiful Riddles
by myshkins
Summary: A continuation of Dostoevsky's novel The Idiot. Our story picks up about a year after the epilogue. Pained by Prince Myshkin's misfortune, newlyweds Yevgeny Pavlovich and Vera Lebedeva move to Switzerland to help their sick friend. Little do they know that the horrors of the past still have an important role to play in their lives...Please read and review!
1. Chapter 1

_"Beauty is difficult to judge; I'm not prepared yet. Beauty is a riddle."—Prince Lev Nikolayevich Myshkin_

I.

After nearly two years of amiable and eventually affectionate correspondence, Yevgeny Pavlovich Radomsky and Vera Lukyanovna Lebedeva were finally married in late spring. Though brought together by the most unfortunate circumstances, the friendship that had sprung up between them had deepened so that they seemed to know each other's feelings intimately without seeing each other in person for months at a time. Yevgeny Pavlovich still traveled abroad extensively over the course of their correspondence, returning to Petersburg in January after four months of absence.

He had visited Prince Myshkin a few weeks before his arrival in Petersburg and was anxious to relate news of him to Kolya Ivolgin, who, along with Vera Lukyanovna, was always eager to hear about the unfortunate man. The Yepanchins, too, would want to hear about the prince's condition, but, somehow remarkably, it had been made known to Yevgeny Pavlovich that only a few days prior to his arrival in Petersburg, Aglaya Ivanovna had made a sudden appearance with her Polish "count". It goes without saying that complete and total upheaval was visited upon the Yepanchin household after their arrival—it was rumored that the married couple had been at the house only half an hour before a quarrel had flared up. Aglaya Ivanovna had stormed out, her "count" behind her, swearing that "You all will regret this; mark my words!"

Precisely what they would regret, Yevgeny Pavlovich had not found out, and he admitted to himself that he did not want to know. His chief aim once he stepped off the train at the station was to visit Vera Lukyanovna. He remembered her heartfelt inquiries after his own welfare with warmth along with her anxieties about the prince. Though it was clear that Prince Myshkin's intolerable circumstances grieved her very much, her devotion to Yevgeny Pavlovich himself was manifest in the tenderness of her address and the depth of her feeling. As he sat in his carriage and made his way to the Lebedev's, he recalled the peculiar curve and swirl of her script. She always addressed him as "you" rather than "thou", as was proper, but to Yevgeny Pavlovich, her written "you" was more intimate than "thou" could ever be.

When he rang at the Lebedev's, he had hoped to find the master of the house absent. Although Lebedev had been present when the details of the disaster had come to light, Yevgeny Pavlovich had always sensed that his motives had rarely been genuine, and perhaps never had been so. Lebedev's manner always seemed insincere, and when Yevgeny Pavlovich thought of his past relations with the man, he recalled a tone that tasted of affected sweetness. Frankly, he detested the man. Yevgeny Pavlovich was disposed to laughter, gaiety, and pleasantness, but Lebedev's manner was of such repugnance to him that he often became irate and impatient. To his dismay, not only was Lebedev at home, but he was in the highest of spirits that day, having just returned from calling on the Yepanchins. Lebedev, like many people, found a great source of delight in the misfortune of others, especially when those experiencing the misfortune were from a family prominent in society. Lebedev spoke of General Yepanchin's and Lizaveta Prokofyevna's indignation at their daughter's arrival with great excitement in his voice—so much so that Yevgeny Pavlovich could not help the grimace that momentarily distorted his handsome face.

"Just imagine, sir, the state that Ivan Fyodorovich and the venerable Lizaveta Prokofyevna are in," Lebedev began gleefully when they entered the small drawing room after a brief greeting. "After nearly two years of barely hearing a thing from Aglaya Ivanovna, she suddenly shows up on her family's doorstep with her Pole in tow. The Pole's name, by the way, is Mazurski—not a count after all, but a man without title or fortune!" Lebedev, red-faced, gave a loud guffaw.

"Well, title and fortune aren't everything, after all," Yevgeny Pavlovich replied rather uncomfortably, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"True, sir, true—but they do help! And they say the man is a real scoundrel. Lizaveta Prokofyevna told me herself how the man waltzed into the house and demanded—my God, you wouldn't believe it—he demanded ten thousand roubles from them! Straight out, he demanded it, without ceremony—imagine, sir! Apparently he has many debts with certain disreputable persons, sir. "

Yevgeny Pavlovich frowned. "How do they live, then? He and Aglaya Ivanovna?"

"Very poorly, it is said. They are staying here in Petersburg, in a garrett at the top of a house near Liteiny Prospekt. The wonder, sir, is that if the two live so humbly, how can they presume to ask such a sum from Ivan Fyodorovich so boldly, as if it is their due? Especially when they all but abandoned the family. . ."

"Pardon me, Lukyan Timofeyevich, but is your eldest daughter at home?" Yevgeny Pavlovich interrupted impatiently.

"Yes, most esteemed Yevgeny Pavlovich, my Vera is here. . .but of course you'd want to speak to her," Lebedev replied, head nodding and eyes winking rapidly, though he suddenly hunched as if deflated. "She has been waiting many weeks for some news from you, sir. If she did not have my other children to distract her, I don't know what would have become of her nerves. . .Not to chastise you, sir, of course!" Lebedev added hurriedly. "Verochka is a dear child, my dearest treasure, since my honored wife passed away, sir."

"I never meant to cause grief to her or to yourself," Yevgeny Pavlovich said quietly but firmly. "May I go to her?"

"Wait just a moment, dear Yevgeny Pavlovich; I'll call her, sir."

Lebedev scurried out of the drawing room and down a corridor. Yevgeny Pavlovich heard his vexed cries of "Verochka! Verochka!" from the adjoining room, his shrill tones then mingling with the soft musical murmur that could only be the voice of Vera Lukyanovna. Soft steps alighted at the drawing room door, and she appeared. Yevgeny Pavlovich made a low and sweeping bow, tightening his grip on the soft round hat he had been holding in his hand since he arrived. Vera Lukyanovna, with a slight flush of pleasure and shining eyes, went straight to him and offered him her hand. Yevgeny Pavlovich brought the pale hand to his lips, unable to suppress a radiant smile.

"You've arrived at a fortunate moment, Yevgeny Pavlovich," Vera began timidly, with genuine warmth. "Everything here seems turned upside down. It is really is good to see you again."

"Upside down, upside down indeed," Lebedev parroted from behind her, still standing by the doorway.

"Yes, I've heard about it," Yevgeny Pavlovich nodded, turning to glance back at Lebedev. Vera knew at once from this glance that her father had been excitedly relating all the Petersburg news to their visitor in his usual ingratiating way. The tiniest look of indignation and embarrassment flashed across Vera's face at that moment. Yevgeny Pavlovich noticed this, and not wanting her to worry herself, pressed her hand reassuringly. Vera positively beamed at him.

"Papa, may I have a word alone with Yevgeny Pavlovich?" she asked Lebedev.

"Why, yes, yes of course, my dear. . .no doubt you two have things to discuss. . ." Lebedev smiled in his usual much-too-obliging fashion. He laughed loudly for seemingly no reason at all, made several short, jerky bows, and went out.

The two sat side-by-side on a small leather divan. Before he had come to know her, Yevgeny Pavlovich had never thought of Vera Lebedev as a great beauty; in fact, being caught up as he had with Aglaya Ivanovna and the Yepanchins over a year ago, he hadn't thought of Vera at all. After coming to know her, however, he realized that her beauty lay in such things as the compassion and love for life contained in her gaze, her selflessness, her pale hands that fluttered like birds, her soft murmuring voice that was capable of instantly calming a crying child, and her seemingly unending concern for those around her. Vera was much more serious than he, but whenever Yevgeny Pavlovich laughed in his joyful and sincere way, Vera could not help the wide grin that played across her face. It was clear that her joy arose chiefly from the happiness of others. In the same way, it was the suffering of others that brought her the most pain—especially the suffering of Prince Myshkin, about whom she was regularly informed by Yevgeny Pavlovich himself through his letters.

"And how is our dear friend, the prince?" Vera asked solemnly, as though without any expectation of good news.

"He is much the same as the last time I visited him. As usual, Schneider has no hope for a recovery. As I've told you, I always have a talk with the prince, about whatever might come into my head at the time—it might even be nonsense. He sits facing a window. Apparently he can be quite hysterical when taken away from that window; for some reason the outside calms him. He doesn't speak at all. Sometimes when I'm speaking, he'll look into my face as if he understands my words, but apart from that there is no indication at all. He's made no sign that he remembers me, though he's usually calm when I speak to him."

As usually happened when she heard about the prince, Vera began to cry.

"He was the kindest man I knew," she said, shaking her head tearfully. "Why should such a man have come to this?"

"Yes, I've often thought the same thing myself," Yevgeny Pavlovich sighed, and taking Vera's hand, squeezed it hard. "I will continue to visit him, although without regular conversation, I believe it's unlikely that he will ever recover."

"Is he ever allowed outside the sanatorium?"

"Very rarely, it seems. Of course, he has to be accompanied by an attendant, and if there are a lot of people or activity around, he becomes confused and frantic."

There was a long pause. Vera seemed to mull over these facts for a moment. Then she took a shaky breath and spoke, her voice steady, yet full of feeling.

"If only you knew how much I long to be there for him. If I were near him, I would go to him every day, if just to speak to him. I wouldn't care if he didn't remember me. Do you know, I—I get so weary of staying here. Doing insignificant things, seeing the same people. I've never gone anywhere. I have an overwhelming desire to take up some cause and devote myself to it. If I had some influence or some money, I would go to Switzerland myself-to pay back the kindness that the prince showed me all the time I knew him. . ." she dropped off as if overcome and looked down at her lap. She had taken out a handkerchief and was twisting it absently between her fingers.

"Those are very noble sentiments, Vera Lukyanovna," Yevgeny Pavlovich breathed solemnly, touched by her words and the compassion that rang in them.

Later on, Yevgeny Pavlovich would recall that moment as when he decided once and for all that Vera Lebedeva would be his wife. He proposed marriage to her two weeks later, and it was decided that they would marry in late spring. An engagement dinner was given at Lebedev's in February, to which many people came, among them Ganya and Kolya Ivolgin, the Ptitsyns, who were expecting their first child, Prince Shch. and Adelaida Ivanovna, who were finally married, and the Yepanchins. Aglaya Ivanovna and her Mazurski could not have attended even if they wanted to, for they had left Petersburg and gone "Lord knows where", as Lizaveta Prokofyevna put it.

The wedding was an extremely happy occasion, and though Vera Lukyanovna had grown up in a relatively humble way, Yevgeny Pavlovich ensured that no expense was spared. Although the attention she received often overwhelmed her, Vera Lukyanovna was pleased. Her father was in extremely high spirits as well, and utterly devoted himself to Yevgeny Pavlovich so that the latter had even greater difficulty in avoiding him than usual. Everyone in the circle of the couple's acquaintance attended the wedding, and everyone enthusiastically admired Vera in her finery, noted the tender looks between bride and groom, and watched as the couple were crowned. The wedding was everything that it was expected to be. The only oddity went unnoticed by everyone except the bride and groom themselves: among the crowd that surrounded the church after the ceremony, the newlyweds suddenly glimpsed Aglaya Ivanovna and a man who could only be Mazurski. As beautiful as ever, though thinner, paler and more simply dressed, Aglaya Ivanovna looked at Yevgeny Pavlovich and Vera Lukyanovna with venomous contempt. The newlyweds looked at each other as though unsure of what they were seeing. When they tried to find Aglaya Ivanovna's face in the crowd again, she had gone.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

After a brief honeymoon in Venice, the Radomskys decided to travel north to Switzerland to visit Prince Myshkin in the sanatorium. The weather was brisk, and as the couple's carriage gradually made its way through the mountainous terrain from the train station to their remote destination, tendrils of vapor spiraled upwards from the distended nostrils of their two chestnut horses. Vera Radomskaya, though she had experienced the brightest happiness of her life those two weeks, slowly felt an icy anxiety grip her as they rode along. At first, she attributed her uneasiness to being away from her homeland for the first time. However, as she reflected, she could not find any special longing for home in her heart. She did miss her siblings, the youngest of whom had just turned two, and despite her father's peculiarities, she felt a tender spot for him in her heart. But her family's absence was not so strong that it cast a pall over her new-found marital bliss. Vera's anxieties stemmed from something stronger and deeper: a sense of foreboding that hovered at the back of her mind even as she felt her husband's hand in hers.

Vera clearly remembered the fateful events of that summer in Pavlovsk. She had since admitted to herself that she had been rather taken with Prince Myshkin and had gone out of her way to please him all that time he had lived at their dacha. His open gaze, his artlessness, and his extraordinary kindness had struck her immediately and had bound him to her heart. The prince's engagement (such as it was) to Aglaya Yepanchin had troubled Vera at the time-she had noticed that the Prince's emotional state following his visits with his betrothed was either one of complete despair or ecstatic merriment. Vera could not help but resent that Aglaya Ivanovna seemed to be using the prince's good-heartedness and devotion to play with his sensitive feelings. After the murder of Nastasya Filippovna, when Vera heard of the arranged meeting between Aglaya Ivanovna and the former, she was astonished that the prince should even consider Nastasya Filippovna as an alternative to his fiancee. True, Vera was not fond of Aglaya Ivanovna, but like the majority of Pavlovsk and Petersburg society, she knew that Nastasya Filippovna had been a kept woman and that she was often in the company of rogues and scoundrels. Why the prince should have chosen such a promiscuous and reportedly insane woman over Aglaya Ivanovna, who was the daughter of a respected family, Vera could not understand. Of course, she could not fault the prince for his actions, and when she heard about the murder from her father, and about the state the poor Prince had been found in at Rogozhin's, she was inconsolable. She wondered how he could have become involved with such parasites; it was surely they who had brought about his ruin, and she wept for him.

Even now, remembering these events, she felt a familiar pang in her heart. She glanced over at her husband. Radomsky was also pensive, his hands in his lap, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular. He looked over at Vera and gave her a small smile.

"I'm afraid this won't be a happy end to our excursion," he remarked sadly.

"You know I must see him, and that I don't begrudge you anything," she replied, resting her head lightly on his shoulder. Radomsky kissed her hair. "Besides, I sometimes feel that I don't deserve such happiness with you, and that I've gone too long without feeling some kind of sorrow."

"Hah! You are a saint," Radomsky laughed. As always happened when her husband laughed at her, a self-conscious yet genuine smile crossed Vera's lips.  
The carriage lurched-they had stopped.

"Why have we stopped, Seryozha?" Radomsky asked the driver.

"Why, we've arrived, sir."

"At the sanatorium? Already?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hm, the trek gets shorter each time," Radomsky remarked, frowning slightly. He got out of the carriage first, not waiting for Seryozha to open the door, as was his peculiar custom, and helped Vera down after him. The day was wet, gray, and chilly, and few souls were stirring in the village. The snow-capped mountains in the distance struck Vera as standing upright like sentinels, guarding the village from the rest of the world. She sensed that this place, the sanatorium included, had been frozen in time-that its exterior had not changed for decades. Indeed, even the surrounding houses, the stone church with its high bell tower, and the shops all had a look of preserved and timeless innocence that suggested that the place had been untainted by any hint of urban dust and grime.

Schneider came to meet the Radomskys immediately after he was informed of their arrival. He was a man to whom appearances were of the utmost importance, and he always insisted on punctuality. He had met Yevgeny Pavlovich many times over the course of the past eighteen months, and considered him to be a man of good standing to whom the most genteel manners were owed. Radomsky respected Schneider, too, and the two men met, as always, warmly and respectfully, both speaking slightly accented French.

"It is strange that you and your wife should have arrived today, Yevgeny Pavlovich," Schneider remarked solemnly after a pause in the flow of affable greetings, "because just last night, the prince appears to have suffered a particularly strong attack of his illness."

A strangled gasp erupted from Vera's throat, and she looked at Schneider in alarm, her eyes wide.

"We're very sorry to hear that. Was anyone around help him?" Radomsky asked, visibly pained and pressing Vera's hand.

"There was an attendant sleeping by the door to the prince's chambers, and he rushed to him as soon as he heard the screaming. Of course, during these attacks, there is not much that can be done until the spasms are over. . .," Schneider broke off as if he wasn't sure what more to say. He looked at Vera and Radomsky's faces, and noting the gravity of their concern, added: "The prince is still unconscious this morning, but we expect that he will be awake toward the afternoon."

"And what does this fit mean for the possibility of the prince's recovery?" Vera pressed the doctor. The fearful expression had not left her face, but there was a kind of composed strength in the way she pressed her lips together and tipped her chin slightly upward. Her breast rising and falling rhythmically and her cheeks slightly flushed, she looked at Schneider almost without blinking.

"Vera Lukyanovna, I regret that there is no guarantee that Prince Myshkin will recover. In fact, given his marked lack of response to stimuli and his sustained confusion, I cannot hope for any substantial improvement."

"Would it be possible to see him now?"

"Well, as I said, he is unconscious now, but visitors would do him no harm."

Vera looked meaningfully at her husband.

"We would like to go to him, doctor," Radomsky decided solemnly. Schneider nodded and gestured for couple to follow him down a narrow white corridor. Vera had not known what she expected the sanatorium to be like. Some part of her mind imagined hundreds of cramped and dimly-lit rooms filled with shells of people: consumptives and invalids who had given up life completely, and who were destined to fade away quietly where the world would not remember them. As she walked down the sparse corridor, the only word she could think of to describe the place was "clean". Rounded corners and soft edges gave the impression that every surface had been worn down by relentless scrubbing. Small windows let in a good amount of light despite the gray day outside. These simple attributes soothed some of Vera's apprehension, but when they arrived at the door of the prince's room, her heart was seized once again by that same anxiety that she had felt in the carriage. It had grown in strength now, and as Schneider opened the door to the prince's room, Vera pressed Radomsky's hand and faltered. Schneider noticed her hesitation.

"Come in, by all means," Schneider said softly, moving aside to allow them to pass.

The prince's room was small, but not cramped. There was a curtained window on the far wall, in front of which a simple wooden chair had been placed. A small leather divan rested against the right wall, and against the opposite wall was the prince's bed. Vera approached the sleeping prince with trepidation, but when she glimpsed the familiar face of the unfortunate man, she could not help breaking into a smile. The prince looked the same as before, though he had grown thinner: he had always been pale, and the peaceful expression on his sleeping face was just the same as Vera remembered it when she had glimpsed him sleeping on the terrace at their dacha during that fateful summer. Noticing a stool by the bed, Vera settled herself on it and continued to gaze at him. He wore clean white linen, and his head had been propped up slightly by two pillows. His lips were parted, his breathing easy and measured.

"How calm he looks, Zhenya. As if nothing were the matter," Vera whispered and glanced back at her husband. Radomsky placed his hand reassuringly on her shoulder. Vera's eyes rested for a moment on the prince's left hand, and without thinking, she slowly and very gently reached out her hand and closed it around the prince's own pale, delicate fingers.

"Verochka, are you sure you should-"

"Look, Zhenya, look!"

A few moments after Vera had taken the prince's hand, his eyes had fluttered open, and he looked at them all as though not quite sure where he was. Vera was overjoyed and spoke excitedly.

"You're awake, Prince Lev Nikolayevich! It's me, Vera Lukyanovna-only now I'm Radomskaya and not Lebedeva. Yevgeny Pavlovich and I are married now. . .," she dropped off, seeing no sign of recognition on the prince's face. Prince Myshkin looked at her, his lips slightly parted and his intent blue eyes looking into hers. That blank stare, which had once been so full of compassion for every creature, pained Vera more than anything else. She suddenly remembered with a rush how sweetly the prince had once kissed her hand, her cheeks, her forehead. Vera bent over the prince's hand that was still entwined with hers and kissed the cool skin of his knuckles. Pressing one of her cheeks against this same hand, she began to cry. Schneider, who had been lingering in the doorway of the prince's room, stepped forward.

"Madam, perhaps we shouldn't bother the prince for the moment," he suggested, though the firm tone of his voice indicated that he did not expect to be contradicted. "We musn't exacerbate his condition. . . too much excitement might be detrimental so soon after awakening." At his words, the prince had stopped looking blankly at the wall in front of him and turned his eyes upon the doctor. Vera raised her tearful face just in time to see the prince's eyes widen. Almost imperceptibly, the prince moved his head from side to side, uncertainly at first, and then more emphatically. A grimace momentarily distorted the prince's face, and his mouth began to work as though he was attempting to speak, but could not.

"He's trying to speak! Do you see, Zhenya? He wants to say something. What is it, Lev Nikolayevich?" Vera looked rapturously at the prince, her face still shining with tears, but with eyes that contained the light of unmistakable adoration. The prince slowly raised himself from his pillows so that he sat almost upright. He looked around at them all as though desperately wanting to speak earnestly with each of them. It was clear that the prince knew them now, though his movements were in jolts and starts and suggested that he was still not quite sure where he was or how he had gotten there. He no longer attempted to speak, but looking at Schneider, Yevgeny Pavlovich, and especially at Vera, tears formed in his eyes, and his gaze eventually dropped to his lap. In that pitiful moment, Vera noticed the reality of the prince's altered condition for the first time: his sunken cheeks, the beads of sweat lightly resting on his brow, and the heavy dark crescents beneath his eyes.

"The poor soul," Radomsky whispered, turning to Schneider, who stood as if stunned. "Well, doctor, you didn't expect this?"

"No, sir. . . I must admit, I'm astonished. Still, I insist again, sir, that we leave the prince alone for a time despite these developments. Give him a day to recover, at least."

"Yes, you're right. Verochka, dear heart, let's leave him be. We'll stay at a nearby hotel-we'll come back tomorrow."

Vera's brow furrowed, and she had been about to vehemently protest and insist that she stay by the prince's side when something occurred that both the Radomskys would remember for years afterward: The prince, looking at Radomsky and then allowing his icy-blue gaze to linger on Vera's face, grasped Vera's hand gingerly in both of his, looked down at it as though admiring the soft white skin of her fingers, kissed each knuckle, and smiling warmly at her and then at Radomsky, nodded as if to say "Leave me now, and don't worry. We shall see each other again soon. I am very happy."


End file.
